Blue, by Aegypte
by SiriuslovesRemus
Summary: Narcissa is deceitful, Draco's in trouble and Lucius has his eye on a pretty girl. Following his release from Azkaban, Lucius struggles to make a new life for himself. This story is somewhat AU, featuring LMxFDW and SSxDM among other pairings.
1. Chapter 1

Whispering fills my ears as I grasp the polished brass handle of the Gringott's door and step inside, shaking the melting snowflakes from my platinum hair. It is warm here in the bank, free of the swirls of wind-whipped snow and the chill of winter, but although I have been free from Azkaban for nearly a month, the pervasive chill has not yet left my bones. Not even the pleasure of watching the other customers gape at me with undisguised horror can erase the frigid Azkaban cold from my body, where icebergs circle in my veins. Truthfully, I am surprised they recognize me at all. I was on the front page of the Daily Prophet for nearly a week during my drawn-out trial, and a feature, _"What to Do If a Released Death Eater is Discovered in Your Neighbourhood"_ was published for a few days following my release, complete with tips on basic self-defence and how to perform an emergency Auror summons, but it has been weeks since the newspaper found other scandals to cover and left me to my silent retreat from the world. Besides, I look nothing like the elegant, graceful photographs which appeared prior to my release. My hair, once my pride, was shorn in prison as an added humiliation, and I am dressed in far less expensive robes now, made of ordinary cotton with a plain wool cloak, nothing tailor-made or velvet, nothing even remotely regal. My cane, they told me when I was set loose upon the world, was destroyed, but I fancy it has disappeared into someone's personal collection, a relic of conquered darkness or, more dangerously, a souvenir stolen by a fan. From now on, I will not be permitted to own or carry a wand, and without one I am like a child, learning life anew.

"Next!"

Holding my chin high, I cross the room, surveying the clerk who has offered assistance. Thankfully, she is not a goblin, though a goblin may be more pleasant, as the creatures spend little time keeping up with Wizarding politics. No, she is very much not a goblin, but a witch who is beautiful, intensely so. Her hair is a shade similar to mine but highlighted with a blonde that is almost silver; she must have some Veela in her blood; just a bit though, for although several of the other male customers have not taken their eyes from her, she does not have that engulfing presence that hypnotises the viewer in a sort of a lustful coma. Her eyes are sparkly blue, like the depths of the Caribbean Sea, her nose pert and up-tilted. It takes more than beauty to captivate my interest, for I have been married to one of the most beautiful women in Britain since I was eighteen, but this girl, this young clerk at a bank in Diagon Alley, has it. A certain strength shines from her eyes, the defiant set of her mouth indicates her full potential is not being reached in this shimmering palace, where the sounds of movement and whispers and rushing wind fill the air. The scent of her, which should be vanilla, sweet and ordinary due to her age, is darker. She has seen much, and gives off the lush perfume of rainfall and heartbreak, of cinnamon and forgotten promise. Instead of the customary open glance of recent graduates of Hogwarts, the girl has a closed, protected expression, as if she has endured things of which she cannot speak.

Stepping before her, I withdraw my vault key and slide it tensely across the counter, where she snaps it up with her thin fingers and examines it. I steady my jaw, prevent my teeth from chattering as my heart takes a cold plunge; I am certain she will deny me, tell me my vault is still closed. The Ministry sealed it on the day of my capture, and requested an entirely excessive amount of paperwork to re-open it, which I have only recently managed to complete. _Damn them_, I think, clenching my teeth harder. My empty hand aches for my wand.

"So, 'ow can I 'elp you, Meester...?" the clerk begins, raising her eyes to me once more. Her voice flows like water, soothing to the ears after two years of hearing nothing but shouts. The words are an interesting mix of sharp British and musical French accents, and the cautious pronunciation indicates she still does not entirely trust herself to say the words correctly. Beautiful. She is not of Hogwarts, then, but likely Beauxbatons.

"Malfoy," I supply, hearing the heavyset woman behind me squeak. I offer a sardonic sort of smile. "My name is Lucius Malfoy."

"Malfoy," repeats the girl. The name badge pinned to her robes says "F. Weasley", which cannot be right. She is no Weasley stock, this long-legged girl whose uniform robes beg to be lifted, whose mouth is moist and pink. For one thing, the hair, and for another, the accent. There are no Weasleys in France. It simply boggles the mind that such uncultured people would be permitted into the nation. Her nod is benign, disinterested as she twirls the key between her thumb and forefinger, examining the angles. It is apparent that she has no idea who I am.

"I wish to enter my vault," I snap, slightly impatient. _Curse the Ministry_, I think darkly. If I was my rightful self, boots gleaming with high polish instead of scuffed and used, cloak immaculate with silver fastenings shining instead of this shabby thing encircling my shoulders, this clerk would look at me. There would be something in her eyes -- fear or lust or interest -- something other than a glassy sheen of boredom. "I would like to go _now_." Somehow, I keep my anger restrained, the way I always sheathed my fury with Cornelius, pretending never to grow tired of his constant questions, his need for reassurance, the explanations he required.

"Zee Malfoy vault 'as been sealed for some time now," F. Weasley explains, her voice civil and still disinterested. She is not even looking at me.

Shoving my hand into my pocket, I withdraw the bundle of parchment I received several days ago and practically throw it at the girl. From somewhere near the bank entrance, I hear someone snicker, and feel my ire rise. _Better if they had killed me_, I note passionately, _than left me to this_. Lucius Malfoy, once feared my millions, now the laughingstock of Britain. I desperately try to coax the pretty child before me into granting me access to my gold with a mere glance.

"There are the forms," I hiss at the girl hatefully. "They're signed by Scrimgeour. Everything is valid."

Her eyes travel down the page, growing wider and wider, and satisfaction blooms warmly in my chest. I know what the forms say. They describe, in minute detail, my crimes and sentencing, as well as the formal conditions for my release. Somewhere in there, around the third page, is the paragraph that unlocks my vault, giving me access to my gold once more. I hope, fervently, the Ministry has not skimmed too much off the top. It took a great deal of bribery, in addition to the confessions and sneaking and betrayal, to secure my freedom, and although Scrimgeour knows nothing of it, it was Cornelius Fudge who did much of the work behind the scenes, speaking to the right people in exchange for the right price.

When the girl sets down the forms, her hands are shaking. Her eyes, dilated with fear, stare at me for the barest of instants before she ducks her head, hastily fumbling through the desk drawer for a form for me to sign. She drops the quill, twice, as she hands it to me, releasing it from her grip before my fingers can grasp it, and she nearly topples the small ink bottle as she jerks her arm back to her own side of the counter. I smirk, watching her for a moment, tracing with my eyes the rise of blush that floods her cheeks prettily, and then I sign, elaborately and with a great deal of flourish.

As I slide the parchment back to her, I pause, touching the tips of her fingers and relishing the way her lip quivers. She looks at me, her eyes doe-like in their frightened state, her body frozen. Her nails are sculpted ovals, unpolished but shining, the cuticles carefully pushed back, and her skin is very, very warm. A slim gold band encircles the fourth finger of her left hand. She is married then, I realise, and let go. The way she hides her hands inside her pockets as soon as she is free of my touch amuses me, but there is little pleasure to be taken in frightening young girls. I pick up my key, offer F. Weasley a cordial nod, and follow the waiting goblin from the room.

"That was Lucius Malfoy, did you see?" an excited elderly man is explaining to his apparently deaf wife as I return, heavy bags of galleons clutched in both wandless hands. "Ack, there he is again!"

I feel their eyes watching me as I cross the marble floor, my gaze resting on the elaborate gold designs etched on the ceiling. A few patrons skitter to avoid me as I move towards the counter, but F. Weasley is gone, either home or on break, and I leave the bank feeling oddly disappointed.


	2. Chapter 2

Freedom from Azkaban suits me, but virtual imprisonment in my home does not. Day after day, I have little choice but to remain inside the manor, staring out the windows at my bleak, wintry surroundings, driving myself mad.

In the days immediately following my release from Azkaban, nothing delighted me more than remaining at home. I strode barefoot down the carpeted halls, reacquainting myself with the many rooms in my home. Simple pleasures overwhelmed me after so many months of solitary confinement in a place so brutal as Azkaban. I spent hours marvelling at the smoothness of the silken sheets of my bed, gazing at the portraits of Malfoy ancestry from a hundred generations back, and simply walking, gradually forcing my atrophied limbs to stretch and regain the pleasure of motion. Bathing in my claw-footed tub, submerged to the neck in blessedly hot water that smelled of sugar and pine, eating again the food I had once enjoyed instead of the tasteless gruel we received in Azkaban -- all these things seemed to reawaken me, give me such a love for life that sometimes I could have wept from the sensation of it. But then, my world seemed to shrink as the same routines played themselves out day after day. I grew bored of the narrow sphere my life had become. Now it is torture.

I have read the books in my study so many times the spines have grown limp, and dined upon my favourite meals until all food seems tasteless. I made love to my wife countless times after arriving home, delighting in each brush of her skin against mine, giddy that I still knew what to do after so long without physical touch, but now Narcissa's passionless clutch holds no interest, and I find myself avoiding her whenever I can.

Luckily, I had not lost any memories in Azkaban, the once-feared fate of all prisoners. The Dementors, after all, had left before my arrival, and none existed to feed on the recollections of men. We were guarded by wizards like ourselves, and in some ways that was worse. Dementors know nothing of jealousy or revenge. Their sole desire is to feed. Wizards, however, do, especially those who walked the halls of Azkaban itching to find a prisoner out of line. Our guards threw curses and hexes at us, flinging spells meant to scar, which rarely fell short. When they could not provoke a rise from us by inflicting the minimal amount of pain the Ministry allowed them to toy with, they would attack with an arsenal directed at our damaged pride and vulnerable emotions. Taunts flew that Narcissa had been raped and murdered, that Draco had been captured by Ministry officials and was kept chained in the dark, where he was assaulted and routinely subjected to the Cruciatus. In the beginning, I knew these were lies. Later, my resistance broke alongside my sense of reality and I because paranoid, desperate enough to do anything to get out, even the mad act that bought my freedom from Azkaban just as it sealed my fate in the Wizarding World. I turned on Voldemort, spilled my innermost secrets, betrayed the closest friends I had ever known. It was surprisingly easy.

Because of this, of course, I am free but not free, simultaneously released and imprisoned anew. Voldemort and his loyal Death Eaters hunt me with as much urgency as they do Potter, who is now hidden and pursuing Voldemort's many Horcruxes, or so I am told through the gossip Narcissa brings me when she returns from her many outings. Diagon Alley is one of the few places I dare visit, briefly, for ever since the war began, the public areas of Wizarding Britain have been heavily guarded by Aurors. I doubt any of Scrimgeour's employees would lift a finger to assist me, but it is sure they would battle any Death Eater who came into Diagon Alley and threatened the wizarding populace. Still, there is always a fear of vigilante justice, so I never linger long. I suppose I could manage a wandless defensive spell, despite the fact that wandless magic was never my forte, but having no wand places certain limitations on a wizard, and I am loathe to chance it without good reason. My visits to Diagon Alley therefore have been few, and short.

I am, of course, barred from entering Knockturn Alley ever again. No one stops me, and the concealed trap door beneath the cellar still leads to Borgin and Burkes, but I dare not risk it. The moment I stepped into full view of the street, I would find a dozen wands trained at me, and a variety of inventive and deadly curses winging my way. Aside from that street, which once contained my life, there is little that tempts me to the outside world. Certainly, Muggle London would be safe enough, especially if Narcissa performed a good glamour on my behalf, but Muggle shops and Muggle things hold little interest. If I cannot kill them, I see no reason to walk among them.

"Lucius!" Narcissa crows in surprise as I walk into her bedroom. This is a new arrangement. Prior to my arrest, we shared the grandest master bedroom, but sometime after I was captured, Narcissa moved into the third best bedroom and sealed off the room which was once ours. Her way of protecting herself, she explained it to me when I returned home, though she's never clarified what she needs protection from. I sleep in the fourth best room, which I have permitted only because, with my nightmares, I often tear the place to shambles. I would not like to sleep in the same room as my wife lest I murder her in my sleep, and for me too the old bedroom is a painful reminder of lost glory. Draco's abandoned belongings and oversized four-poster have been moved to the finest room left open in the manor, a sign of Narcissa's foolish, unflagging hope. Our only son abandoned us some time ago, choosing a life of servitude to Voldemort. The inheritance he forfeited is nothing compared to the tempting power Voldemort offers, but I wonder if Draco has yet understood the true sacrifice he has made. He, like me, has become an indentured servant; he signed his life away the moment he took the mark. The price of power is high, as my son will learn, perhaps to his regret. He too wants me dead. I wonder if he plans to be the one to kill me.

As I approach, Narcissa hastily folds a piece of parchment and slips it beneath the blotter of her desk -- not quickly enough.

"What was that?"

"A letter," Narcissa replies, sucking nervously on her lower lip as she regards me, pretending to be calm. Her face is pale as usual; the post contained nothing scandalous, but there is a secret lingering in her gaze, something she does not want me to know. My beautiful, traitorous wife, I think as I reach for her, one hand on her shoulder, the other patting her hair as if she were a dog and not a woman.

"What sort of an owl? From whom?" I inquire, reaching for her hand. I pull her to her feet, encircling her waist with my arms. She smells of dust and things left to rot, like the small animals it is rumoured she killed by hand as a child, when her malicious nature had no proper target. That is what lies beneath. She has applied liberal perfume to her skin, a delicate, musty lavender and the ancient Kyphi and Cyprinum she favoured when she was a young girl at Hogwarts. The room smells of lost spices, an odour that is as heavy as it is mysterious.

"Sale," Narcissa murmurs, her breath warm against my ear. She leans forward, pressing her full breasts against my chest, and then kisses me. "Malkin's robe shop."

"You smell like lies and deceit, my dear," I inform her. Her mouth tastes like ash, her kiss cold. Narcissa pulls away from me, trying to free herself from my grasp, but I refuse to let her go. "Tell me," I implore her, trying to peer into her eyes and read the truth, but she jerks her head away from me, hissing like a cat. I can feel her anger radiating from within, and suddenly I know who the post is from. "Tell me," I repeat, squeezing my arms tighter, crushing my wife's wasp waist.

"All right! Draco," Narcissa's voice is hot, which is rare. She is a cool woman by nature, her touch passionless and deft, her eyes ice blue rimmed in silver, favouring the winter over the spring. "The letter was from our son."

I release her quickly and sink down to the edge of the bed, my hands clawed in my hair. "Why," I ask, my voice infused with deep anger, "did you accept an owl from him? I would have strangled the bird and had Aries deliver the dead creature back to him. And furthermore, why did you read it? He's a traitor, Narcissa, a traitor to this family!" Even as the righteous words leave my lips, I cannot help but utter a mocking laugh at myself. Who am I to speak of traitors?

I think of my son the last time I saw him, as a fumbling, unfocussed boy. His skin was delicate, pale and fair from his tendency to hide from the sun. I remember the way his face twisted in a bitter scowl as he spat out the familiar complaints against Potter and company. That had been over the summer before his fifth year, of course, when it was luscious and hot, the golden air tropical and everything scented with sweat, so different from the way it is now, blue and cold. I cannot imagine my son as he must be now, at eighteen. An adult. Whenever I try to imagine him behind that mask of a Death Eater which I wore so often myself, all I can see is the way he would wave to me, proudly, from his broom each summer, swearing he would win the Quidditch cup for Slytherin. Such little things, such foolish things. I wonder if he has killed yet, and whether he wept over his first victim as my closest friend, Severus Snape, did, back when we were young. I wonder how Draco fares under Snape's watchful gaze, if his youth fled the instant he took the mark, and what is left of him now.

"He's our son," Narcissa hisses back, her voice breaking with the maternal love she has for him yet, the only human element within her. Narcissa is many things by turns -- a seductress and a killer mostly -- but with Draco she became something else, completely defying her nature. She loved him with a tearful devotion that strangled him in his youth and evoked his fire, later, when he learned she was not leaving me even after what I had done. "He wishes me dead," I answer simply. Spinning on my heel, I stride from the room. "Leaving," I call from the doorway as I walk away, although Narcissa does not ask. "It's high time I purchased new clothes. These robes are in rags." My wife makes no comment. She wipes her eyes and returns to the letter, clutching it to her breast as if it is Draco himself. I know she prefers him to me, and longs for the way he once regarded her with awe. She has remained with me out of a sense of obligation, and I find that as time passes we grow more distant, and I feel very much the same.

It is not snowing by the time I leave the last robe shop in Diagon Alley, weighted down with three heavy shopping bags and two parcels tied with string. Instead, the sun is peeking out tentatively from behind the puffy clouds, casting the world into a dazzling mix of sunshine and shadow. Striding down the cobbles, listening to my new dragon-skin boots click satisfactorily upon the stone, I smirk at the passers-by, some of whom ignore me and other who look, startle, and cross the street as though expecting to be attacked. Apparently it is not common knowledge that my wand has been destroyed, for no one makes any attempt to hex me. Under the brightly lit sky, I feel like a new man. My trousers are black as midnight, not the greyish colour of black which has faded from storage. My new cloak, which swirls around my legs, has the scent of clean velvet, not the stale, medicinal odour of mothballs and protective charms. I am pleased with the results of the expedition, but the small number of galleons I stowed in my coin purse have run out, and I am in need of more if I am to recreate my wardrobe completely.

Gringott's is empty at this time of day, the regular customers all at work. Abandoned, the front lobby stretches out, lit here and there with ornate crystal chandeliers that pale in the glow of the sun. There are just two goblins standing near the entrance to the vaults, both of them muttering to each other, their arms crossed and surly expressions on their faces. At the counter, resting on her arms as she reads a book, is F. Weasley. Her hair is not loose today, but coiled around the base of her skull in a business-like bun. Even from a distance, her eyes are noticeably red-rimmed, as if she has been crying. I notice her wedding ring is suspiciously absent from her finger.

"Argument with your husband?" I inquire as I saunter up to the counter, eyes glittering as I survey her. She is reading not a romance novel, as I would have suspected, but History of the Cruciatus, a research text. "Dry," I announce, "but informative!"

"What?" Blotting her eyes on a tissue, F. Weasley gapes at me.

"The book," I clarify, tapping the leather cover with one finger. "The going is rather tedious, but the text is extremely accurate. If you're planning to Crucio that husband of yours, that is the book to learn it from."

"Yes, eet is." For a moment she looks like she is going to cry, but then she smiles, a sort of strained expression on her pale pink lips. She closes the book and slides it beneath the desk, nodding slowly. "Can I help you?"

"Malfoy, vault 667," I say, rather annoyed that she has not remembered me. Perhaps, I decide a moment later, she does not recognize me with the new clothing. The last time I arrived at her counter, I looked rather shabby. Satisfied with that understanding, I attempt a smile, which comes out wrong, more predatory than I would like it to be. It does not seem to frighten her, for she does not step away. Her eyes widen just a bit, a signal that she does remember me after all, from the details in the letter more than anything else. "I'd like to make a withdrawal".

"Right," agrees F. Weasley, peering at me as though intrigued. That I cannot understand; only reporters seem to want my story, and even they smell like fear. "I shall get Feckless to take you." As she raises her arm, intending to wave over one of the waiting goblins, I catch her hand. "I'd rather you took me".

Surprisingly, she does not pull her hand out of my grip, but allows me to hold it as she studies me, from the top of my hair, which now hangs to my chin, all the way down to my gleaming boots, with their shining, newly polished Horntail scales. "Zees is against policy, Meester Malfoy," she says eventually. "I am afraid not. Zee goblins take customers, not I".

"But I want you." And I am accustomed to getting my way, I think, but do not add. "There are no customers, and my vault is not very deep. It won't take long. Surely, Gringott's wishes to allow the customer every possible satisfaction?" My gaze is lecherous, one eyebrow raised in expectation.

She laughs then, covering her mouth with one hand like a child and nodding. As I release her hand, she steps out from behind the counter and indicates I should wait. I stand patiently while she explains herself to the goblins. Then she beckons to me. "Come along, then".

We wait for one of the carts to emerge, peering into the shadowy darkness beneath, where the click and clink of carts echoes in the distance. Out from behind her counter, F. Weasley looks even more appealing. Unlike most, who dread the swift plummet and swoop of the trip down, she licks her lips, smiling to herself as she lets down her hair. "Zee wind," she explains when she catches me looking at her. "I like za way it feels on my 'air." Her grin is naughty and irresistible.

"Being behind the counter must bore you," I observe.

She nods. "I was going to be a curse-breaker, but my 'usband's family wanted me 'ere, closer to 'ome." There is resentment beneath the thin skin of carelessness. She shrugs, as if it does not matter, but it does. The hostility is visible in her eyes. The air around her is hot with pent-up frustration, boredom and wasted time. "Then 'e was injured, so, I am 'ere for good now."

"Injured?"

"Werewolf bite," she says casually, as if it hardly matters. I feel myself recoil; even I, who have seen death and inflicted it myself, have never gotten over my fear of werewolves. They are the outcasts of society, more dangerous than Death Eaters and less respectable than Hufflepuffs. "Oh, 'e is not a werewolf," F. Weasley clarifies hastily, seeing my discomfort. "The one which bit 'im was not transformed. Fenris...?" she breaks off, confused about the name.

"Greyback?" My voice is incredulous. I remember that attack from the letters Draco sent afterwards, when Severus committed his betrayal on Dumbledore and took my son from me forever. "Your husband is Bill Weasley?"

She nods, unsurprised that I know. The attack was in all the newspapers at the time, of course, she has no way of knowing it was my son who permitted Greyback into the school in the first place, unleashed him upon all those children and her husband. Recovering from my surprise, I hold out my hand. "And you are..."

"Fleur Delacour -- er, Weasley," she adds hastily, blushing a bit as she remembers her wedded name. "It 'as not been long."

Pretending not to hear the Weasley part, I smile. "Delacour, that is lovely. It is French, no?"

"Yes." She looks away then, her hand settling on the cart, which has at last arrived. She permits me to enter the cart first, then settles herself near the door, leaving a modest gap between our bodies. Tapping the cart with her springy wand, which I envy incredibly, she slides back, hands clutching the seat beneath her. Childish pleasure fills her eyes as the cart begins to move, starting forward ever so slowly, failing to hint at the erratic swerve and free-fall that will soon follow.


	3. Chapter 3

"Where were you?" Narcissa asks when I arrive home at last, slightly sodden from my long walk to the public Floo in Diagon Alley. How I miss Apparition, the swift easy flick of the wand and the sensation of absence.

She is sitting in the dining room, her long, white legs crossed beneath a satin garment of scandalous length, a dress of sorts, which ropes around her neck and leaves her back exposed, highlighting ample cleavage with a fallen neckline. In one hand is a glass of something red, wine, I suppose, or blood. I wouldn't put it past her. Clearly, in my absence, she has made considerable effort towards reconciliation, for the dinner before us is lavish, all my favourite sumptuous dishes, and she looks divine. Fresh from the shower, her hair smells like lilies and the cloying henna of her favoured perfume, and she has all but erased the undertone of malice from her glance. Draco's name is on her lips as she kisses me, though, and she tastes like tears and a mother's loss. I draw back.

"Diagon Alley," I answer, smoothing a napkin into my lap. In my new clothing, I sit straighter, my ramrod posture restored alongside my pride. I feel alive again, like a Malfoy again, though my fingers ache from their newfound idleness, and I still miss the cold burn of metal in my palm. "I told you, my dear," I continue, accepting the glass of brandy she holds out for me, "I was in dire need of new attire."

"You were gone a long time."

"That's because I met a gorgeous, soon-to-be divorced young thing and fucked her madly atop Draco's inheritance for hours on end." I lie, my face straight as the fantasy shows itself in my head.

"Hmm?" Narcissa glances up, drawn back to me by the power of our son's name. She never listens to a word I say.

"I spent all of Draco's inheritance," I answer with a tired sigh, watching her go through the motions of surprise, anger and resignation, her mouth open in a gasp of shock, glaring at me as she sips her drink. "Well, it's not as if he requires it. Severus has quite a bit tucked away. I'm sure he can be persuaded to look after the boy, as payment for buggery." It does not pain me to think of it now, my son's young, athletic body with his fragile features and defiant snub nose, splayed beneath the man who was once my most trusted companion. I wonder what he feels, what he thinks, as my best friend looks down on him with his raven eyes heated from want. Draco always adored Severus, loved him above his other teachers, and Severus felt the same, regarding his prize pupil with a favouritism that bordered on questionable even to one so far from moral comprehension as myself.

Narcissa sniffles into her cup of blood. "Lucius!"

"Yes, I know, my dear, I am being difficult. My apologies." I grin at her, loving the smile she sends back, which is pained and smeared with red, trying to desperately to please. Over the years I have broken her a thousand times, but it never ceases to amaze me how easy it is. Poor middle daughter of the Black empire, she never got enough attention. Andromeda pulled stunts her civilised family could scarcely imagine, and Bellatrix was the little darling, cute and rosy at seven, making the adults laugh as she practised her curses on mice, a child murderess. The Blacks clapped for Bellatrix and fought with Andromeda, leaving their faded flower to rot. Even now, she desperately fears abandonment. That is why she set her sights on Draco. She thought he would never leave her. It is amusing how things turn out.

We eat in silence. Narcissa, wary, keeps her eyes on me as I drink down my brandy and order another, picking at the roasted chicken. Her overpowering need to care for someone is oppressive, and I despise the way she hovers, watching me closely, lest I fumble and fail to deliver each morsel to my mouth. I half wish Draco were back, to give her floating maternal suffering a target.

"The Lestranges --"

"I know," I say quickly, to cut her off. Doesn't that damned woman know I get the Daily Prophet each day? "Bellatrix murdered, Rabastan sent to Azkaban." Potter was the one to finish her off, I noted with grim satisfaction when I first read the article. A picture of the boy wonder graced the front page, but that did not bother me. He deserved his revenge, I suppose, for the murder of his godfather. I am no longer a loyalist to any side, neither the Ministry's nor Voldemort's. I value my life above all things, and respect those who can fend for themselves. Potter, I must admit, has earned my admiration, despite his youth and idiocy, and the fact that I sought his death for so long. It does not bother me that Bellatrix is dead either; she was the weaker party in that particular duel and got what she deserved. I am simply glad she _is_ gone, finally, after so many attempts to trump me in power, not to mention her own elusion of capture that night at the Ministry.

If Narcissa is upset over the death of her sister, she does not show it. She eats gracefully, buttering her roll in smooth, sophisticated gestures before bringing it to her lips. As soon as she lowers it, however, a more depressing thought occurs to her. "It won't be long now."

"Before what?"

"Before -- Draco," she holds in the sob that presses against her throat, but cannot hide the gleam in her eye that signifies rising tears. "He's just a boy, Lucius! Even with Severus at his side, how long can he hold out? Voldemort doesn't care for him, his life will be risked, it's only a matter of time before he is captured or --"

"Killed?" I supply cheerfully. _Cruel, you are a cruel one, Lucius_, I think to myself, watching Narcissa leap from her chair and flee from the room, nearly knocking over the dessert cart wielded by a confused house elf. Watching her retreating back until she ascends the stairs to her private domain, I cannot stop smiling. Finally, I look at the house elf, and decide on the lemon tart.

The next time I see Fleur, a few weeks later, she is perched at a low table near the window of the Leaky Cauldron, reading and stirring a shimmery beverage with a cherry floating on top. I watch, fascinated, through the snowfall as she plucks up the cherry and pops it into her mouth, twirling the stem a bit. It is only when I see her eyes slowly lift to my face, a wicked smile on her lips, that I know she saw me before I ever noticed her. Laughing, she beckons me in.

Normally, I would not be caught dead inside an establishment so seedy and unrefined as the Leaky Cauldron, where card games played by individuals of questionable humanity are always in full swing, and the air is scented with the foul smoke of a hundred different pipes, but I go in anyway, drawn by Fleur. Her charm is in full swing today, turned to top volume. Gold-tinted twists of hair bounce around her shoulders in cascading waves, and her eyes are bright. For the first time since I set eyes upon her, she is not dressed in the restrained outfit of a Gringott's employee but in robes which appear to be her own. They are cerulean, perfectly fitted, the hemline falling to mid-thigh, and if we were in a place like the Three Broomsticks, everyone in the room would be staring at her.

"Lucius," she says with a smile, glancing towards the chair opposite.

"Miss Delac -- Weasley," I amend, and she beams at me.

"Fleur," she insists. "I am not at zee bank now."

She closes her book, leaving it on the table between us. _One Thousand Years of Destruction: A Primer to Dark Arts_, it is called. "The Dark Arts existed ever so much longer than that," I tell her.

"Yes, so I 'ave 'eard," Fleur responds, tracing the engraved title with one finger. "Still, eet ees eenteresting. Full of spells, many charms as well. Useful," she adds cryptically, turning away and sipping her drink.

"And you study it by daylight, in a public place?" I ask, marvelling at her daring. The wizarding world, for all its many advancements, is still very much entangled in black and white thinking. If something is not good, it is bad, and there is no place for shades of grey. Those who flirt with darkness are soon singled out and ostracised. "I would have thought it would make you uncomfortable."

Fleur shakes her magnificent head. "Oh, no. My 'usband, you see. I am searching for a cure." It is a lie, how I know I'm not certain, but at least it is a plausible one. Who would think to question a bank clerk with those darling curls and that sculpted figure, especially one claiming such a noble cause? There is a darkness to her which I can sense, not enough to lead her to Voldemort, but enough to make me sure she is not as innocent as she seems. She is not a girl for whom questions can remain unanswered, not matter how unappealing the answers may be. She is the type whom curiosity will kill, if given the chance.

"How long have you lived in Britain?"

"Five years."

"And you still speak like that?" I question. "Such a heavy French accent?"

Abruptly, Fleur seems to freeze. She blushes, embarrassed. "I thought you would like it. Many men are drawn to a French accent," she explains, looking rather humiliated. Her voice still maintains it's musical lilt, and there is a vague uplift to her words, but her pronunciation is far better, clipped and clear.

"I am not most men," I say. Placing my hand over hers, which trembles slightly, I offer a seductive smile. "I want to know you, not the illusion. So, who are you really? You got married young, to a man who was injured by a werewolf but does not transform, and now you work at a bank and study Dark Arts in your spare time? Most curious, you must admit."

"Well, I came to Britain and --"

"How?"

She comes into her own then, her gaze shining as if she is looking back upon the distant past. I can almost taste the adventure sparkling crisply before us. "The Tri-Wizard Tournament," she explains. "I was the contestant from Beauxbatons. I came with members of my school, to Hogwarts, for the competition. It was an honour to be selected, but I knew right away I would be chosen. Otherwise, I would not have come."

I remember her then, very vaguely, from the newspaper clippings I scanned at the height of my freedom. Draco sent some, originally boasting about the Tournament being held at his school. I clipped more and sent them back, when Potter was chosen and Draco's dreams of fame and additional fortune were crushed beneath the glow of the hero of the wizarding world. "And then?"

"Then I met Bill." Instantaneously, she is back to reality, once more trapped inside a shadowy pub in dreary weather, spilling her heart to a stranger. "Oh, back then he was quite the handsome man. There was a way about him that was intensely attractive; I wanted him the moment I met him, when he came to cheer for Harry -- Harry Potter," she adds, as if I did not know that most famous name. "I took a job at Gringott's, training as a curse-breaker to work on my English, dating Bill all the while. We planned to get married, but Voldemort -- well, you know." She looks plainly at me, pursing her lips. "And Hogwarts was attacked while Bill was on duty, leaving him scarred and badly wounded in many ways. We married. I couldn't simply abandon him in that state, and here I am." She smiles. "Now it's your turn."

"What would you like to know?"

"How does a convicted Death Eater get set free?" she asks bluntly. "You have the necessary documents, you have not escaped Azkaban, yet the papers say you committed many murders. So?" She does not seem afraid, only questioning, looking the way she must have been at Beauxbatons when she was studying something of particular fascination. It amazes me, for most people shy away, even those for whom the Dark Arts has become a hobby pursued with passion. Glamour and glory is one thing, but looking a killer in the eye is not a common pursuit of wizard-kind.

Closing my eyes for a moment, I can hear the sultry rhythm of her breathing, the tap of her fingernail against her glass and the way the ice clinks musically. No one, not even Narcissa, has heard the complete story of how I attained my freedom. My wife knows of the bribery, of course, for it was she who made many of the drops, depositing bags of galleons in secret locations for anonymous wizards to collect, and she understands that I was questioned. But there is more to it than that. I like to strike a gallant pose, to present myself as one who never broke under force or pressure, who defiantly swore fealty to Voldemort no matter what horrors were threatened, but all of that is false. I knelt in rooms that smelled of blood and dirt, crawling on my knees through filth, hands scrabbling towards the merciless officials who came to question me. I was a fount of information, various names and facts bursting from my lips. I informed upon my friends, my wife, even my son. I told everything from the day when Draco, then a third year, jokingly discussed learning the Killing Curse to that terrifying night I received word smuggled from the outside, a note from Narcissa, announcing Draco had aided in Dumbledore's murder and the attack on the school. I spoke of things no one in the Ministry had thought to ask, told secrets they had not imagined I held. In short, I spilled my guts like a frightened little girl, babbling nonsensically anything I thought might save me. No one knows, and no one ever will, for there is one secret I shall take to the grave, the secret of my release.

"Nothing much," I decide upon, leaning back in my chair. "I had to surrender my wand, and I was interrogated a number of times. Apparently, the Ministry is satisfied. I'm not entirely unsure they haven't released me as bait, to be honest, hoping to catch other Death Eaters if and when they come for me, but as of yet, none have come." That much is true. Very poised, I smirk, intending to convey the idea that there is more to Mr Lucius Malfoy than meets the eye, pretending I can still hold my head up high, that I still hold enough confidence and energy to play cat and mouse games with the Ministry.

Fleur looks unconvinced. "They released you just with that? It seems unlikely. I know Scrimgeour, and he's not the type."

"Well," I lie. "I suppose they considered me less important than those closer to Voldemort. I was on the fringes, not one of the truly dedicated." It is true, I've never been dedicated to the cause. Exterminating Muggles is all wholesome good fun, and my love of the Dark Arts is not at all feigned, but ruling the world is hardly something I stay up late at night dwelling upon. We Malfoys have been above all flexible people, easily endearing ourselves to those in power over us and then, when they trust us and are vulnerable, we strike, toppling them and moving all the higher. However, my relation to Voldemort was not that of a sycophant nor a mere dabbler in darkness; I was one of his closest confidantes. The Ministry knew it, of course; I was set free primarily as punishment. They hoped the Death Eaters would tear me apart.

"I got a different impression from books," announces Fleur, "but books are sometimes untrue." Hesitantly, she licks her lips and looks at me closely, her eyes narrowed as if there is something about me she desperately wants to figure out. "You are well known. I heard many patrons speak of you after you left the bank last. It must be difficult for you now. So many people know your face, you have no anonymity."

"You didn't recognize me," I point out.

She smiles a little, girlishly. "Forgive me, but I pay little attention to British politics." She glances down at the enchanted timepiece attached to her wrist; it is similar to a Muggle watch, but apparently controlled by spells instead. "It's later than I thought. I have to go."

As she rises, I catch her wrist. I had no intention of following up the conversation with another meeting until just this moment; Fleur is young, far too young, even for all the experience she seems to have, and I am not an unfaithful husband. Narcissa may no longer be the centre of my attentions, but I know what is owed to her. Infidelity is not an idea that is foreign to me, however. As with any Dark Arts organization, a certain attitude of hedonism is promoted among the Death Eaters, and we were always encouraged to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh, to experience the thrill of entering new bodies. Perhaps it is Voldemort's way of sating the wrath he wishes to control, so that instead of killing each other in boredom-inspired duels, his followers exhaust themselves and focus on the wishes of our Lord.

I take Fleur's hand in mine and hold on a little too hard, in a grip that makes her wince but brings a pretty shine to her eyes. Already I can tell she is a young woman for whom adventure and danger are aphrodisiacs; no other woman would go home each night to a man who could, if blood and moon will it, rip out her throat.

"I'd like to see you again."

She is used to young boys -- Hogwarts boys, Beauxbatons boys, who try to woo her with flowers and poems, boys who are delicate and smooth and hopeful. I can see it in the way her eyes widen with surprise. She had expected something a bit more subtle and hesitant, but her answer comes quickly enough. "Perhaps you could answer some of my questions, about the Dark Arts?"

"Planning to join Voldemort's side, are we?" I can't help but ask.

"Perhaps," her smile is all mystery and dark humour, but behind the flirtation is an empty promise. She will do no such thing. "I am occupied the next few nights, but maybe the end of the week, on Friday? There is a meeting my husband must attend. However," and her voice suddenly turns stern, "I am looking for a friend only. I have a husband."

"What a coincidence, as I have a wife," I declare with a smirk, my heart leaping as she laughs. I blame my reaction on the long prison days, where nothing touched my skin but chill wind, and the only words I heard were taunts. Normally, I would never be so eager about a girl, nor so available. "Friday? Shall I meet you at the bank?"

Fleur shakes her magnificent head, her hair flying. "And have the whole world see me march away with a convicted killer? I think not! My husband would be immediately alerted, and he is very protective. He might get the wrong idea about you. Due to his politics, I think it is best if he does not know of our friendship. He would react very poorly, and it might be dangerous for you." Code for _he's a member of the Order of the Phoenix_, I take it, given the way she leans forward and looks me straight in the eye. "No, please meet me someplace less populated. Can you Floo to Hogsmeade?"

When I was in Hogwarts, the village was overrun by students taking advantage of the lax security, but it is bound to be less populated now. After word got out that a handful of us had been meeting regularly with a man called Riddle, who aspired to great, if terrible, things, the curfew was put in place and visits to Hogsmeade were limited to occasional weekends, but now the school is under a virtual lock-down, and the long tradition of Hogsmeade weekends has ended. Students order supplies and do their shopping by owl post, and without the trade from the school, many shops have closed, leaving the place almost uninhabited. I suspect Aurors will still be making their rounds; the village is too close to the school to risk leaving it open to Voldemort's ranks. I should be safe. "If I am careful."

"Be careful," Fleur insists. "The Hog's Head, yes? Meet me at seven?"

"Seven," I agree. Releasing her hand, I watch her wave farewell and disappear into the night, where the snow swirls and obscures my view.


	4. Chapter 4

"If I don't find you in ten seconds, so help me Lucius, I'll burn this house down to the ground!"

I hear the declarations but can't quite believe them; the voice is so familiar it hurts to hear it, and the words typical in their annoyance. _Severus_. But it cannot be Severus, unless he's found a way past the wards or charmed Narcissa into gaining entrance.

"Lucius! Lucius!" Narcissa's voice is sharp and urgent, but there is no fear in it. She must be in on my murder too. I sometimes forget she still has a wand. "Where are you?"

"My study," I call back, sealing my fate. I hear something topple to the ground and crash loudly on the polished floorboards, perhaps the Tsang dynasty vase Narcissa is so fond of. Heavy footsteps move rapidly in my direction, and I think about the fact that I have no wand anymore, not even the heavy cane to swing in self-defence. Perhaps I could manage to get in a good hit with the bookends if I flung them at the right angle, but Severus is already charging in through the door, rushing towards me with his cape billowing, looking every inch the Muggle fantasy of a vampire with his pale face and flashing eyes. His mouth falls open as he looks at me, his hands clutch my cloak desperately, and then he does what I least expect, and throws his arms about my shoulders, giving me his version of a hug, which is much like being strangled by a boa constrictor.

Before I can react, even to push him away, Severus leaps back. He is more a vampire than ever, now that I truly study his face. His lips are streaked red with what smells like blood, coppery and cool, and his black eyes are crazed.

"Draco," he exclaims over the choking tide of breath that threatens to overtake him. Exhaling, then inhaling, he recaptures his oxygen and blinks, frantically, trying to reclaim his composure. "It's Draco. He's been captured."

"Captured by whom? Aurors?"

"Worse," says Severus, and his face is grim. "Voldemort."

I sink back into my chair, looking at the pile of books perched on the low table before me. I had been sorting through my library, trying to find articles whose age and value did not deter me from loaning them out. Fleur's curious pursuit of forbidden knowledge intrigues me, gives me a strange purpose. If I can no longer perform dark deeds myself, due to the absence of the necessary tool of the wand, perhaps passing on some of the finer traditions will make me feel better. If either Narcissa or Severus find it strange that I have taken down over one hundred of my simpler volumes and arranged them into stacks of varying worth, neither of them make mention of it.

"Voldemort?" I ask finally, not believing. "Why would Voldemort capture my son? Draco is a loyalist," I add, scoffing a bit. My poor only child was the wrong type for a Malfoy, prone to following over leading, looking only for the proper authority figure to endear himself to. "And in any case, why should I care? Draco wants me dead. I should be glad he is put to death, for it leaves me all the safer."

"Lucius!" comes Narcissa's outraged exclamation, but thankfully Severus shushes her and sends her from the room.

"If you're here to lure me out of my home with some story about my son, Severus, you may stop your ranting immediately. Draco's well being is no longer my concern. Kill me now, if that is your job. I am wandless, and the wards permit the use of a Killing Curse within the grounds." He should know this already, given the number of people we have killed here, out in the grass or indoors, on the lower floors of the house where Narcissa never ventures, where Draco as a boy believed he saw ghosts.

"I'm not here to kill you," Severus hisses. He thrusts a slim vial at me. "Veritaserum. I knew you'd ask questions. You always ask questions. Give it to me if you like, so you believe me when tell you the truth. Draco was never loyal to Voldemort, just as I never was. It was ruse on my part, Lucius. I left Voldemort before the Potter murders, and when went to Dumbledore to confess my misdeeds, he made me a spy."

"A pity Albus cannot collaborate your story, seeing as how you murdered him," I answer. "The next time you come up with such a tall tale, it might be helpful if your alibi wasn't dead by your own hand. And what's this about Draco, I'd like to know? I have it on good authority, yours in fact, that Draco arranged the method for the Death Eaters to invade Hogwarts and even planned to be the one to murder dear old Albus. All this for a man he cares nothing about?"

Severus looks at me sternly, the way he must glower at his students, frightening them in every Potions class. "For a man he cared very much about, in fact, as well as a woman. The Dark Lord told him Narcissa and yourself would be killed if he did not comply. Afterwards he fled with me because there was no way he could return to school after what he had done. He trusted me to keep him safe. The vow --"

"What vow?"

"Narcissa had me make an Unbreakable vow to protect him."

"Protect him? Is that the euphemism you use for buggery now, Severus? Charming. Although I must say, I had more respect for you in the old days, when you at least at the nerve to call things what they really are." Eyeing him cautiously, for he is a man of formidable temper, I motion a frightened looking house elf into the room. It comes, bearing drinks on a high silver tray, probably courtesy of Narcissa, who is above all an excellent hostess. "You're fucking my son, admit that at least, Veritaserum or no." The house elf gulps and reddens, but it is Severus' flush that pleases me. "Brandy?"

He nods. "I'd better," he says, sitting down. "And you're right," he adds, not looking at me, as the house elf squeaks in shock. It must be new; the old ones are accustomed to hearing of such things, and face each new revelation with the patience of those who have endured much tribulation. "I am. Or rather, I was. It isn't what you think, Lucius," he goes on, glaring at me. "I didn't intend for it to happen."

"No, of course not." My voice is amicable, my hand on the heavy bottle of brandy, which would shatter easily over his head and cut him in a million places. _My heir_, I think. _My son!_ He was only sixteen when Severus took him, little more than a child really, all those fine, pale features and fragile bones. Across from me Severus goes white and chokes on an ice cube. I remember his talent for Legilemency and hate him for it, when I am such a poor Occulemens. "You just happened to awake up one morning to find yourself atop my boy, is that it?"

He musses his hair, raking his fingers through the strands, which are longer than mine. "Not precisely. Lucius, please, there will be time for addressing this later. Can we concentrate on aiding Draco now? His time is short."

"Aiding Draco? Did I give the impression that I was interested in assisting him? Let Voldemort's faithful do as they will to the boy."

"It was my understanding that you gave up Voldemort's secrets and are no longer loyal to him," says Severus violently. "Surely you don't think the Death Eaters whose homes and families were attacked were uninformed about who gave them up? Lucius, please! Set aside your pride and anger and please think about Draco. He needs you."

I struggle not to yawn, my hand fanning before my mouth. "No more dramatics please, Severus. I find it very tiresome. If you want your bedmate back, go and fetch him."

"He's not my bedmate any longer," Severus hisses. "He left a month ago, I'm not sure where to. He'll will probably try to say he was working as a spy, but no one will believe him. He'll be tortured, raped, put to death."

Through the heavy oak door, Narcissa's shrill gasp is audible. She has been listening in all along. I am surprised she hasn't come in to slap Severus, for it seems incredible to me that she already knew about the buggery. Always, whenever I mentioned the rumours I had overheard in prison, she dismissed them as fanciful, but she has always been fond of Severus, exceptionally so. Maybe she tolerates it.

"Lucius, listen to me, you were the one who taught me when I joined Voldemort and --"

"Had I known the sexual privileges extended to teachers, I would have been ever so greedy."

" -- you know my skills better than most. You know I can't do this alone."

I nod. I do know this; Severus' potions are pristine, his Legilemency immaculate and mastery of the Dark Arts powerful, but he is less adept then most at the casting of useful charms, his flying is atrocious and his Transfiguration is at best mediocre. Also, despite his tremendous knowledge of the Dark Arts, he does not use the Dark curses with a natural grace. It takes effort for him to kill, and it is painful for him to torture others. He loves the research but deplores the usage. Typical for a half-blood. "What do you think I can do, Severus? I have no wand."

"You could take Narcissa's!"

"And be arrested, thrown back into Azkaban for violating the terms of my release? Not to mention whatever penalty the Ministry would dream up if they saw me in the company of a Death Eater such as yourself. Ask Narcissa to help you, if you like."

Severus' withering glance is enough of an answer to that. "Lucius..."

"Leave," I demand suddenly. "I don't wish to hear any more of this."

Surprisingly, he rises and sweeps out without another word. For a long time I remain perched on the chair, finishing my glass of brandy and pouring myself another. The strange energy of the room crackles, and the air is highly pressurised, the way it always is when Severus has been here. I wonder without much emotion whether or not he will try to free my son on his own. It is a fool's game, valiance, one better left to Gryffindors. Heroism is an act with which Severus has precious little experience, but I don't doubt he will try his best. When he loves someone, which is exceedingly rare, Severus seems to possess strength.

Much later I wander from the study, determined to wash away the lingering scent of serums and adrenaline that hovers in Severus' absence. I feel grimy, tainted, and there is a slick, cold feeling in my mouth that could be guilt. My boy, my only child, is soon to die, and I have done nothing to help him. I think of the gifts I have doled out over the years, all intended to aid him; the brooms I purchased to sway the Slytherin Quidditch team, the expensive clothes he wanted in order to woo Pansy Parkinson. I remember the way his face lit up on each occasion, and the way it slowly darkened as the last years of his youth flew past. His eyes lost their tricky gleam; his shoulders, once proud, fell as a hundred failures added up, leaving him bereft. He will end up like me someday, I know, if he survives this run in with Voldemort. He will end up a frozen creature like his mother, an icy man with a steely gaze and a deadly silence, priding himself on excess and riches, taking risks not from a sense of adventure but to feel a little less dead. There is already a hollowness to him; Severus did not speak of it, but I know he has run into that darker, lonelier side of the boy. Perhaps that is why Draco left him, for Severus is entirely too needy and together they can only make a troubled pair.

I walk through the entire house on my roundabout path to the bathroom. Each room is dark, carrying the scent of snuffed out candles, the last bit of rich smoke hovering in the air. Already the house elves have made themselves scarce, disappeared somewhere, though they would come if I called them, eager as dogs. Narcissa's scent trails through the upstairs hallway, leaving a purplish aura in the places where she so often hovers, examining her complexion in a mirror or, more often, crying. It does not surprise me when I reach the last unchecked room of the manor and find she is not there.


	5. Chapter 5

Quarter to seven the following day finds me stamping the snow from my dragon-hide boots as I march across the Hogsmeade high street. As I presumed, the area is deserted. There are a number of darkened shops boarded up with wood, signs plastered to their doors and windows advertising going out of business sales long past, or bearing irate portraits of escaped Death Eaters and advising caution. A number of bulletins recommend self-imposed curfews at dusk, which the majority of shoppers have heeded. The only patrons out now are those scurrying to the safety, warmth and light of the pubs. The Three Broomsticks, I notice as I pass, is packed with customers. Music beckons from the half-open door and the smell of butter beer and roasted meat is carried on the wind.

Beyond the Three Broomsticks, hardly anyone is out. I notice a few dark shapes of witches and wizards, their forms obscured with thick, dark cloaks, drifting into the shadows and making secret deals. Their whispers carry on the wind, mostly talk of fear and war and questionable allegiances. They could be Death Eaters, I know, and my pace quickens. The lamp over the door of the Hog's Head draws me like a moth.

Shaking the light dusting of snow from my hair, I push open the door, revealing the squalid horror that is the Hog's Head pub. Unlike the Three Broomsticks, the odour of the place is not pleasant. It smells of spilt ale, stale bread and the reeking, cheap scent of whores, who have come out of the woodwork to seek clientele in this once quaint village. Desperate times, I assume, call for desperate measures; while the Ministry cannot seem to hire new Aurors fast enough, numerous other businesses are failing. Few have sufficient training to gain a position as a hunter of Dark wizards, and the training offices are flooded with eager applicants, leaving little opportunity for the lesser educated among us, particularly those without a Hogwart's education and a fair number of N.E.W.T.s.

There are no prostitutes in the Hog's Head at the moment, however. The meagre offerings of the Hog's Head are unlikely to draw wealthy patrons, I know, and I assume the working girls are more likely found at the Three Broomsticks, making merry with drunken men they will only later lead to the filthy rooms above this rickety establishment and earn their galleons, or, more likely, mere sickles.

Hardly anyone is at the Hog's Head, a fact for which I am thankful. It is obvious why no one comes; underfoot, the floor is sticky with spilt drinks and old food, and the rest of the place is coated in grime. The chipped old counter has not seen a cleansing spell in years, no doubt, and dust lays thick upon glass bottles of butter beer, rum and Odgen's Old Fire whiskey. With resources scarce, there are few wizards who would care to squander the contents of their pay packets here.

The only patrons are those like myself, ostracised from the community and seeking refuge on the outskirts of society, or those with dark dealings they do not want anyone else to get wind of. One bedraggled, grey-faced wizard nurses a pint glass of mead in one dismal corner of the room. The only other customers are two witches who sit at a battered table near the feeble fireplace. One is deathly pale save for small, bright red spots of colour high on her cheeks, which gives her the appearance of having lupus. Her eyes are very bright, almost feverish. She whispers to her companion, a brunette with shadows under her eyes and exhaustion visible in her very posture, who withdraws a packet of some mysterious powder from her robes and slides it across the table.

My observations are interrupted when the door opens, revealing Fleur, who is wearing a plain black coat and an old Hogwart's scarf in Gryffindor colours. Her hair is the cleanest thing in the pub. For a moment she glances around, apprehensive; a moment later she spies me and picks her way over to the discreet booth I have chosen.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she tells me as she sits down. Unwinding her scarf from her neck, she gives me an apologetic glance. "I intended to come directly here after leaving work, but my mother-in-law spotted me coming out of the bank when she was doing her shopping, and things being what they are..." She waves her hand airily as if erasing the face of Molly Weasley, who I have on good authority can be quite the busy-body. "Finally I told her I had left my gloves at the bank and ducked into the nearest grate. Floo powder," she adds, mirthful. Her sparkling eyes look me over. "You are looking well."

I nod formally. "And you, my dear. I've brought you something," I add, reaching into the pocket of my robes to withdraw a small box. I open the enchanted box and pull from it five large volumes, each larger that the box from whence they came. "A few things, actually, to aid your quest for knowledge," I continue as I slide the books over to her.

"_Of Good and Evil: A Witch's Tale of Serving Grindelwald_," reads Fleur as she looks over the first book. It is small and well-worn, bound in kelpie-hide, formerly belonging to my sister-in-law, Bellatrix. Fleur's slim index finger traces the gold engraving on the cover and she looks at me, startled but pleased. "You are loaning this to me?"

"If you are still interested in your...rare pursuit," I agree. "Go on, look at the others." My expression is disinterested, my pose casual, but inside I am bursting. I think of the long hours I spent sorting through my library, assembling my collection and debating about which books would most arouse her curiosity.

She nods, glancing over the rest with interest. Her gaze remains fixed to two in particular, _Were: The Wolf, The Moon and Things That Go Bump in the Night_ and _Darkness All Encompassing; a Advanced Guide to Spells_. "You are most kind," she tells me with an undecipherable look on her face. Her eyes gleam feral in the murky light of the pub. "This one, in particular," she taps the cover of _Were_, "looks most promising. Thank you."

"Of course."

She studies me intently for a moment, then glances down at her hands as she pulls off her gloves. I signal for the gruff bartender to bring us wine. "I'm afraid I haven't much time, as Molly and Arthur are expecting me home before long. In truth, I am a bit surprised to see you here at all tonight," she says.

"Oh? Why is that?"

"There are...rumours. My husband, much of his family, they are members of a certain organisation." Discreetly, she glances around. No one is paying us the slightest attention. "Political activists," she explains briefly. I understand she is referring to the Order of the Phoenix, and say so, to which she nods. "Yes. Of course, I have not yet joined, although Bill has pressed me on the subject many times, as has his father. They seem to believe I would be a useful addition." She offers a false smile. "However, although I do not accompany them to meetings, I overhear much. My mother-in-law entertained this weekend; when I went into the kitchen I heard her tell someone your son had been kidnapped."

"Draco," I say. At her look of confusion, I clarify. "Draco, my son."

Fleur licks her lips nervously, regarding me with intense interest. "So it is true?"

"Perhaps," I offer, flicking my hand as though waving away a troublesome insect. "An associate of mine came to me with a story that Draco had been taken, although I must say, in this weary world it is difficult to know what to believe. Draco was a Voldemort loyalist, or proclaimed his allegiance to Voldemort, in any case."

"A Death Eater!" comes Fleur's voice, breathy with excitement.

"Indeed." Despite the excellent vintage, the wine tastes bitter in my mouth. "He aligned himself with the Dark Lord when he was fifteen, and was pressed into service at sixteen. He bears the mark," I add, just to watch her eyes widen in surprise. Her attention is rapt. "I have been informed, however, that he is a turncoat, either a spy for an opposing side, or merely a young man who has experienced a change of heart. In any case, rumours have also reached my ears. It is possible he has been captured by the Dark Lord."

"But," Fleur regards me, stunned. She runs her hands across the ancient tomes I've brought her. "Then, are you not going in search of him?"

My shrug is graceful, not disclosing the tension I feel at the topic. "I think not."

"Surely your wife must be concerned," she presses me, not understanding the intricacies and complications of the Malfoy family.

"Narcissa has abandoned the manor. I believe she has gone to look for him and plan some daring, impossible rescue." The woman has always had ideas above her station, has always believed herself to be powerful when in fact she is powerless, perpetually surrounded by those far more skilled than herself. "An associate of mine, a friend, has accompanied her, or so I presume." Calling Severus a friend is, perhaps, a bit rich, but fairly accurate, at least in the historical sense. Referring to him as my son's former lover would likely make Fleur uncomfortable, at any rate.

Fleur remains quiet for a moment, lost in thought. Several times, she opens her mouth to speak, then snaps it shut again, checking herself. Finally, she speaks. "I remember him, your son," she tells me. "Only vaguely, I never knew him well. We did not have the opportunity to speak, but I was introduced to him. He seemed a very sweet boy."

_Sweet_, I think, resisting the urge to laugh. "A pity you were never able to know him well. He could have enlightened you significantly on the Dark Arts." The memories make me nostalgic. "He was always a dedicated student, Draco."

"But then, surely, you must be most proud of him," says Fleur, looking me over sceptically. "Aligning himself with a powerful wizard as it serves him, yet abandoning all pretense of loyalty when he has what he wants? A man such as yourself, do you not value those traits?"

Clever girl. "My dear," I begin, changing the subject, "forgive me, but I was under the impression you wished to meet with me again to discuss the Dark Arts. While I now have unlimited time, I presume your own opportunities for leisure are short. You gave the impression that your husband's family kept you on a bit of a short leash, am I correct? Perhaps I can answer some of those questions for you now?"

If Fleur hears the rebuke in my voice, she gives no indication. On the contrary, she drains her glass of wine and offers me a knowing smile. Leaning forward, she rests her fingertips against the knuckles of my right hand. "Unforgivable curses," she pronounces. "Tell me, Lucius, when was your first experience with these curses?"

"Casting or receiving?" I ask, still a bit sullen from the talk of Draco. I cannot resist the flash of her eyes as she watches me, however, and perk up a bit in spite of myself. "Why, Fleur, surely you cannot be implying that I have ever used such curses. They are, after all, illegal and punishable by a serious term in Azkaban." My smile is teasing, insinuating.

Fleur's smile widens. "Of course not, Mr Malfoy," she replies, mock-serious. "But, hypothetically," she continues. "If a young man were to be brought up in an environment where such curses were used, even taught..." Her grip on my hand is a little harder now, as though she expects to be reined in. "When would such an education occur?"

I have come to trust her, somehow, in my sceptical way at least, and in any case, I know even if she did run straight to the nearest Auror, the crimes of my past would not captivate any attention. I served my time and left an informant. "I was instructed in casting the Cruciatus at twelve, the Imperious at fourteen, and by seventeen had mastered the Avada Kedavra." I do not tell her when I received my first lesson in the Killing Curse, though I remember it clearly; an argument between my father and grandfather, over what I do not know, and a sudden flash of light that left my grandfather open-eyed yet sightless, immobile on the bottom stair of the manor I now possess. I had been seven. My father, who had never understood the heady joy of procrastination, had determined I learn the curse then and there. That had been my first experience with the Cruciatus as well. My father had hit me with it for refusing to test my newfound murdering abilities on my cherished pet owl.

"A mere child," breathes Fleur, in shock. Fierce protectiveness is evident on her features; if she did not know me so well, she would likely jump and run to my side, eager to cradle me and soothe away the dark memories. She is indignant on my behalf, outraged. "You were taught such acts as a child? But you were just a little boy!"

"You make me sound as though I was once innocent," I smirk. "When you must have it on good authority I have never once been."

"Lucius," she tells me. Her face is slightly pale and her eyes are dilated and surprised, but she looks almost hypnotized as she stares at me. "You are one of the most fascinating men I have ever met."

Now that, I have to acknowledge, is what I like to hear.


End file.
